Sherlock Advent Calendar 2011
by Atlin Merrick
Summary: What sort of sexy shenanigans and tender tomfoolery did John and Sherlock get up to in 2011?


**Sherlock Advent Calendar 2011**

**1 December, 2011**

John's a grown man. Who _giggles_. At crime scenes no less. As such, it seemed perfectly natural for him to school his lover in the finer points of the art, using a language Sherlock could understand.

"But I'm not…an…_experimeeeeent!"_

Hell yes he was, and so far the answer was six. _Six_ kinds of giggles could be tickled from that long body, type depending on location or stimuli.

Pinch the sensitive nerves in Sherlock's knee in the back of a cab: A single, staccato grunt-giggle.

Brush lips gently along that interminable neck in public: A purr-giggle accompanied by a platoon of goosebumps.

Poke his lean sides with quick jabby fingers while queuing at Tesco: A whoopy, surprised laugh.

Run fingers tenderly behind bare-naked knees: A low, sighing giggle.

Pinch that ungodly bum at a crime scene: A deep, throaty chuckle.

Running his hair lightly over Sherlock's cock _right after?_ The breathy-soft giggle-moan Sherlock makes? Well that one's John's favorite.

_Tygermama's prompted erotic tickling. Thank you!_

…

**2 December, 2011**

Never say John doesn't try. Because John tries. He always does. Some things he'd do well to _not_ try but you know what? He fucking tries them anyway because that's damn well what Johns do.

This particular _try_ was a Christmas card photo. Mind you, John's sent out Christmas cards exactly never so that the urge struck was surprise one. The fact that Sherlock agreed to pose for a photo? Surprise two. Surprise three? There was no surprise three because John saw it coming a mile off.

And _it_ was The Face. The Puss. The you-lot-are-idiots moue of discontent. Look at the photo. Are you looking? That picture? It does not exactly resonate with jingle bells, does it?

"Sorry."

John dumped the cards on the coffee table. Frowned down at them. "No you're not. You didn't even pretend to smile. You look like my uncomfortable prom date."

Sherlock glanced at the scattered cards. "I do." He grinned sly. "Well, I had better do what prom dates do, then. The good ones anyway."

Sherlock rose. Slinking from sofa to where John stood not two metres away Sherlock managed to strip off most of his clothes. Why he did that John wasn't sure, because what the tall man did next was go to his knees, unbuckle, unbutton, and unzip. And then Sherlock proceeded to um, ring John's jingle bells. _Hard._

_Spike65 prompted Christmas cards. Photo prompt from Random Nexus. Thank you!_

…

**3 December 2011**

The nudity was expected.

The erection was not.

Sherlock posing bare bones naked for a life drawing class at the Rockmouth College of Further Education had seemed a logical way for the 221B boys to run the counterfeiter to ground. Several weeks after the fact John's still not sure why they thought so, whose idea it was, or how it went to hell in a handbasket _so quickly._

But it's fine. It's all fine. Because they _did_ eventually corner the counterfeiter. Just not then. God no.

John blames the comforting warmth of the room. Sherlock blames John. It doesn't matter. The fact remains that Sherlock stripped off, he posed, the class drew. And John? John sat in the back and proceeded to _lick_ and _bite_ and _suck_ his lips like there was no god damn tomorrow.

He didn't even know he was doing it. Sherlock did. And while the consulting detective usually has quite remarkable control of his body, watching John watch him and doing_ that…_ Well apparently you can't hide a hard-on when thirty people are peering right at it.

The hormone-addled skirmish began when the sexy school teacher asked Sherlock out, just as the burly baker and the horny harpist were getting their courage up.

After the resulting fisticuffs, they discovered the counterfeiter was gone. And so was Sherlock's erection. And really that's pretty much the whole story.

_Livia Carica prompted this with a 'quick, unfinished sketch' of *cough* an erect Sherlock. Thank you darlin'._

…

**4 December 2011**

She was god damn gaudy, if you ask me.

Honestly, I can't even recall the details of that case without wanting to get as sweary as my poor BAMF!soldier. But Sherlock, the promiscuous little tart, oh he just loved her.

Okay, all right, _fine,_ yes, to be fair those symbols on her pasty pate gave him the key to cracking the case. But did he have to _finger_ her so incessantly while he was thinking? Did he need to _lick_ her engravings to determine whether they were darkened with ink or ash? And finally did he have kiss her_ mouth_ when the final clue fell into place?

I'm not complaining on my behalf, mind you. Of course not. I was a therapist before I ended up on the mantle at 221B. I mean I _know _how pointless jealousy is. Besides I'm a much bigger skull than that.

No, I feel bad for John. For a week my sweet soldier had to see that thing staring at him from their desk. Had to sleep with her between their pillows. Had to wake to find she'd migrated beneath the bed sheets. In one instance, he tells me, that damn skull bumped against his hip with each thrust up into Sherlock's mouth.

"I tell you Rory, it gave a whole new meaning to the phrase getting head."

Yeah. Well. Enough said. _Enough said._

_Thank you K.A. for prompting, Rory the skull totally needed to be in these advent fics._

…

**5 December 2011**

"Your penith ith thooooo not going to fall off John."

John wanted to laugh or conk his lisping lover over the head and drag him back to their hotel. He settled for grinning and swatting Sherlock's hands away.

"Look Johnny John John Jooooohn. No one'th _here. _We're all alone." John's beautiful lush swayed, giggled like the happy drunk he was, and gestured to the midnight-hushed steps near Vienna's Schönbrunn Castle. "Theeeee?"

Solving the Austrian Glühwein conspiracy hadn't involved actually _drinking_ much of the mulled wine, but after the case's successful conclusion tonight, dozens of vintners had lavishly _poured _their appreciation for the 221B boys.

And now Sherlock was drunk, horny, and trying to tug John's penis from his pants while the good doctor groused that the damn thing was going to freeze clean off.

Sherlock pressed his expansive front against John's more diminutive frame, slurred-purred in his sweetheart's ear: "Thides, it'll thtay warm if you put it where _I_ want it." Never a subtle man, Sherlock cupped the opulent charms of his own arse using John's sturdy hands.

John's sensible, he really is. But _you_ feel the vast squirming acreage of Sherlock clinging to you like a hip-pumping limpet and see if _you_ don't drop trou' in the hush of 2:21 a.m. and then, you know, stick it where the sun don't shine.

_Thank you Ka95mee for the photo and wine conspiracy prompts, and Nolala for wanting liiiiiisp._

…

**6 December 2011**

John's ashamed he ever even had the thought, you know?

Now, a couple years on, he wonders at his own cowardice. Then he shrugs to no one in particular and kind of cuts himself some slack.

Because then, as now, it wasn't his own skin he was worried about. It is, was, ever shall be…Sherlock.

In a world where _freak_ is the kindest moniker some can think of for his lover, John didn't want to give anyone the chance to add poof, queer, or something far worse.

Yet Sherlock didn't care then, doesn't care now. With the boldness of a man who's already suffered the slings and arrows of an easily-enraged world, Sherlock was the brave one, right from the start.

Because from the start Sherlock touched John.

He took the good doctor's hand on the lift at the Met. Slung an arm round John's waist at Tesco. Whispered soft in his ear in front of witnesses. And again and again he kissed John when anyone, everyone, when all of London could see.

So several years on John still feels a bit bad that he thought for even one moment—_Should I touch him in public?—_but at least he knows the answer now, even if he wasn't sure then.

_Of course I should. Always. I should never stop._

_Thank you so much Aurora Boreali for your photo prompt._

…

**7 December 2011**

"I'm looking, but I keep telling you it's not _here."_

Sherlock placed a bag on the kitchen table. "John, I didn't touch your precious periodical."

"Yes you did, I saw you foraging around my laptop and the journal was _right here."_

Sherlock began unpacking the items he'd raided from the morgue. "What's the point of even _reading_ something called _History of Medicine?"_

"This from the man who subscribes to _Modern Cadaver."_

Sherlock sniffed a plastic container. Excellent, the intestines were fresh. "That's different. Knowing how flesh decays helps—"

"I bet you threw my magazine in the bin when you 'cleaned' the desk. Why did I even asked you to do that? Next time I lose my mind, ignore me."

Sherlock unpacked a bouquet of human fingers. "If I recall, you weren't complaining when I bent over that desk after, your cock well up my—"

"Shut it, Sherlock." The good doctor wouldn't be railroaded from his righteous strop, not this time. "That's not the point."

Sherlock looked into the middle distance. "No, it wasn't pointy, it was _hard_ yes, but—"

John sighed. "Look, if you see the magazine, just promise you'll let me know?"

Sherlock grinned, showing far too many teeth. He took a jar from his bag, wiggled it until the ocular contents sloshed contentedly. "I promise, I'll definitely _keep an eye out."_

_While Livia Carica didn't mean that final line as a prompt, that's just the way the brain works sometimes. Right? _Right?

…

**8 December 2011**

The informant was being an idiot and Sherlock wanted to 'accidentally' pistol-whip him. Shame John hadn't let him borrow the Browning.

John also hadn't let him go out alone, acting like some mother hen when he discovered Sherlock was meeting the informant in Hackney.

"John, Hackney's reputation is entirely—"

"I'm coming. No debate. I'll hang back. Just stroll past if things get ratty."

Sherlock didn't argue and when things _did_ get ratty he was pleased to see the doctor round a near corner. He was less pleased when the informant caught sight and purred, "Would y'look at the damn swag on _that._ Bet he'd do you right."

There was nothing rational about Sherlock's intensified need to throttle the man; nothing sensible about his desire to cock block an idiot stranger. Yet he wanted to do both so badly his molars ached.

The thing is, the informant finally stopped playing games and slapped in Sherlock's hand the list the detective had been trying to coax from him for twenty minutes. Then, with an arrogant leer, he took off after John. Like a flustered mother hen, Sherlock followed.

He needn't have bothered. By the time Sherlock rounded the corner John had already pistol-whipped the man.

"Sorry, Sherlock. Reflex. He grabbed my arse."

An hour later Sherlock did, too. John did _not_ whip him, however. With a pistol.

_Thank you to the amazing Random Nexus for this delicious John prompt—which she also filled. He does have a magnificent swagger, doesn't he?_

…

**9 December 2011**

Sherlock did it. And did it. _And did it._

He moaned a little while he did it, small breathy sighs. He licked his lips in between, snaky little twitches of the tongue. At one point he gripped John's arm so hard his lover had to bite his lip to stay silent.

"Well this is a first," Greg Lestrade said, eyes wide in, John hoped, something other than arousal.

"Yeah, well he's got a bit of a sweet tooth," the good doctor said, standing near the buffet with the DI, his groaning lover, and a half dozen mesmerized Yarders.

The Art and Antiques Unit had put on quite the Christmas spread, and while everyone else had dug in to the trifle, the roast, the endless frosted biscuits, Sherlock had gone like a big, black-haired moth right for the _brain cupcakes._

Of course he did.

The first moan came with the first bite. The second, when he saw the cupcakes' bloody, uh, its red velvet interior. By the third moan John, six women, and two other men were clenching their thighs together and breathing shallow.

The only one present acknowledging the spectacle, Greg whispered, "Does he always go on like that when he, uh, really likes something?"

"Yes. Yes he does."

"You lucky bastard."

John thumbed frosting from Sherlock's lip. "Oh god, you have no idea."

_Thank you Methylviolet, times infinite for your priceless image of braaaaains. I flailed. I shouted. Sherlock moaned._

…

**10 December 2011**

They fought for twenty minutes over twelve words.

"Ransom Griffin, nice to meet you."

"Death Griffin, how do you do?"

Look, John Watson's absolutely nothing if not professional. A bloody _monogamous,_ damn _faithful,_ entirely _in-love-with-consulting-idiots_ professional, okay? All right?

So just because the good doctor has a predilection for lovers with uncommon names—"I didn't _marry _those others, Kyan or Envie or Oberon, you big dumb git"—doesn't mean he salivates, drops like a stone, and spreads them for just anyone with an unusual moniker, okay? All right?

So when Sherlock John's-Idiot-Boyfriend Holmes sidled up to him at that crime scene—after the witnesses introduced themselves—whispering loudly, "Now control yourself darling," the implications were so grievous that John got in a froth instantly.

However, _John_ is a bigger man than that and _he_ didn't say anything until _they_ got home and then _they_ had that twenty minute argument and then _Sherlock_ let John cool down for awhile before _he_ found the good doctor grousing in Mrs. Hudson's flat and then _Sherlock_ gave Elizabeth _Ariadne_ Westminster Hudson a curt-questioning nod and then _she_ said something about popping out to Waitrose and then _Sherlock_ ignored _John's_ protestations and then not five minutes later _John _was on his back on Mrs. Hudson's rug spreading them and shouting _you perfect idiot_ as he came.

_This entry inspired by a conversation with the incomparable Mirith Griffin. Consider my recommendation of her story Control, Alt, Delete my Christmas gift to you. You. Are. _So. _Welcome._

…

**11 December 2011**

If you'd told Greg that Mycroft would initiate it, the DI'd have given you a lop-sided grin, and praised your wild imagination.

Yeah, well, it's lovely the world's a complex, unpredictable place and that, apparently, the British government can surprise you with a strip-tease.

It happened after another one of the Yard's many Christmas parties (there are two dozen Met branches, and many more boroughs—and therefore friends _at_ those boroughs. Greg gains five pounds every December, swears and sweats them off every January).

_Anyway, _they both came home a touch drunk and a lot not-tired and who suggested the poker game Greg couldn't say, but it was definitely Mycroft who started the stripping, and it was Mycroft who was terrible at poker, and _oh dear god_ it was certainly Mycroft who tied Greg's rarely-used tool belt around his naked waist and purred, "Are you coming, detective inspector?" then sashayed bare-arsed down the hall.

Greg and Mycroft have been lovers for six months, living together for less than one. The DI still has no real handle on what's _normal_ for this particular Holmes and the giddy realization he's not going to get one any time soon.

Scrambling to his feet, eyes never leaving the mesmerizing retreat of that glorious arse, he said, "Oh god, yes."

_AfroGeekGoddess said striptease and I said hell yeah. Thank you my dear; it's not John and Sherlock but it was time for a little Advent Mystrade don't you think?_

…

**12 December 2011**

"—and then the horticulturist's hybrid poisoned her."

Sherlock tsked. "And then the horticulturist was poisoned by the toxin in her own hybrid. I know you love alliteration John, but the _plant_ didn't intentionally envenom the—"

"You said you wouldn't critique my blog entry."

"I _said—"_ No, that's exactly what he'd said. Sherlock's long fingers resettled over laptop keys. He murmured, "Please continue."

After ten seconds without continuation, Sherlock looked up. John was looking down.

"You do know that's not the _area_ that's inflamed."

Sprawled facing one another, a ravel of limbs on half-scattered sofa cushions, John watched Sherlock's prehensile toes delicately massage his, uh, not area.

Sherlock observed John's developing…inflammation. "It's getting there."

John blinked slowly. It was mesmerizing, those fingery-digits doing…things. Unnatural, beautiful things. "The doctor said…you should massage my…_wrists."_

"I will. Later."

A flare of carpal tunnel syndrome had left the good doctor grumpy, grousing, and unable to update his blog. Sherlock had offered to take dictation. So, like a pair of unbearably domestic crime fighters, they'd settled on the sofa, John had begun to speak, and Sherlock's toes had…started…that…

"They are magnificent toes, Sherlock."

The laptop slid to the floor.

"After this I can massage your wrists with them."

'_After this_' began immediately.

_I prompted myself this time. A bout of carpal tunnel/RSI has meant Mirith Griffin had stopped writing for a few days. This fic was how I coped with the temporary tragedy._

…

**13 December 2011**

It was out of character, someone said. John wondered what that meant except _you don't fit the box I built for you._

Then John forgot all about that Christmas party scrooge and the good doctor damn well _danced._

And while he was at it he might have slid down the wall in giggly hysterics. He may have died half-dead a couple of times, too. He also perhaps tried emulating the moves of his lover but to such terrible effect he virtually guaranteed himself a nice pity shag later.

But that was hours away and now, _right now_ John was watching Sherlock do something he'd have laid down three figures against Sherlock knowing: The _Thriller_ dance.

Not only did the lanky git have those moves in his hard drive, he…_what was the word?_ Ah yes, he looked mag-fucking-nificent-no-serioulsy-oh-god-yes-please-yes-anywhere-right-now-just-yes while he did them. (That counts as one word, right?)

John heard the snickers as he tried keeping up with Sherlock, but he's just going to blame the crippling effects of the, uh, the _spinny _thing Sherlock kept doing, and the, uh, the _hand_ action, and Sherlock's silly, sexy, _fierce_ little grins for basically making him seem like Quasimodo out on the town with Baryshnikov.

But that was fine. It was all fine.

Because _John_ was getting a pity shag later so ha, ha, ha on _you._

_Dear god you know what prompted this, and I now feel that Benedict Cumberbatch rates ascension bodily in to heaven for that Thriller video. Ben, I mean it, the size of my adoration for you currently blocks out the sun._

…

**14 December 2011**

"Rectify me, baby."

Good god Sherlock was in a mood.

Oh it was a good one, mind you, a _fine_ mood, but it was also a rare, strange, slightly freaky mood and John wasn't quite sure if he was turned on or terrified.

Sliding his long body low in a plush seat, lacing their fingers together, Sherlock was about to make up John's mind for him.

They'd solved three cases in two days, the final one here, at the planetarium. Teasing his sweetie, John'd said he should at last rectify Sherlock's ignorance of all things celestial. As the words left the good doctor's mouth, Sherlock collapsed in a sumptuous seat, dragging his lover down beside him.

"All right, which planet's that?"

The crazy thing is, at first John actually tried to teach.

"Well that's Pluto. It used to be the outer most planet in the solar system, then it sort of got downgraded to—"

That's when Sherlock did that finger-lacing thing, then, while Holst's _Jupiter_ played, full of horns and strings and grand noise, Sherlock slid John's hand over his, uh, somewhat large celestial object, and then _Sherlock_ started making grand noise, and—

Well, let's just say that after today both of them will associate horns and strings and the word Pluto with some pretty shouty, thrusty uh, very _stellar_ feelings.

_Skyfullofstars' prompt was, appropriately enough, heavenly—thank you my dear!_

…

**15 December 2011**

"I'm _so_ sorry."

"It's all right." Pause. "You were just startled."

"I didn't expect that to happen. Ever."

"I understand."

"How could you? I feel awful."

"You do know it happens to most men?"

"I didn't mean to scream."

"I know."

"It's just…first you were doing that thing—god I love that _thing—_and then when you turned I…" Pause. "I feel awful."

"Really, it's all right." Long pause. "Touch it."

"What?"

"Touch it."

Hesitancy. "You touch it first."

Lingering eye contact. Then touching. Soft, slow touching. "See? Now you."

A hesitant reach. Gentle touching.

"And?"

"It's smooth. I _like _it."

"I thought you might."

"I really am sorry."

"I know you are."

"Touch it again. I like when you touch it."

More touching, slower than the first time, lingering…_fingering._

"Oh god."

"There we go, back on track are we?"

"Yes…oh yes." Pause. "Move your hand, I want to touch it again." Touching. Whispering. "It just surprised me, that's all. I think I sort of expected you'd stay young forever."

"I promise to always stay a bit younger than you, John, but I'm afraid I can't promise my hair won't recede a little while I do."

"I know love. And next time I notice I won't, you know, scream." Pause. "I love you."

Whispering. "I know."

_After waxing lyrical about a certain man's charms no matter how much hair he has, lovely Anarion (who started the whole advent calendar thing) suggested I write about receding hairlines._

…

**16 December 2011**

"What're you wearing?"

John giggled, then wriggled deeper into the bedclothes. Jamming the mobile hard against his ear he manhandled himself gently.

"Just your grey scarf."

Across the poor phone connection it sounded as if Sherlock purred. "Oooh. The one you used to…"

John groaned down the line, "—get off with before I finally got off with you? Yeah."

The sound Sherlock made then was half-drowned by electronic crackle, but John got the picture. Or what was growing between his legs sure did.

"What're _you_ wearing, love?"

Sherlock didn't answer for a breathy moment, then sighed, "Your…dark…blue… Oh god…jumper."

John stopped moving so he could hear the faint sounds coming through his mobile's ear piece. Soft sounds of throaty panting, quiet little moans, and so help him John was sure he heard Sherlock's spit-slick hand sliding fast over his cock.

"Oh John."

Only two words but they made the doctor's own hand move faster, caused him to sigh just as softly.

"Need…" groaned Sherlock.

John held his breath.

"…you…"

John bit his lips.

"…inside…"

John whimpered.

"…me."

Oh god _that_ was _it._

John threw his mobile to the floor, bolted from the bed, slammed open the bedroom door. He stomped on over to the sofa.

"Spread 'em baby," he said to the blue-jumper-clad man masturbating there. "I'm goin' in."

And he did.

_Skyfullofstars struck again with another prompt I simply couldn't resist._

…

**17 December 2011**

Sometimes it takes almost nothing at all.

A finger wiping at the corner of a mouth.

A momentary quirk of a lip.

A glimpse of belly as a t-shirt rides up.

Sometimes it takes almost nothing at all to bring the chaos of a morning to a halt; to make them late for an appointment; to fill up the night with moans.

Before John this is something about which Sherlock never knew, this magic of the small.

He hadn't a clue that the brief press of a forehead between shoulder blades could not only soothe when a case proved perplexing, but start his heart pounding.

Hadn't known that his silence as John railed about his sister could be all the support his lover needed—or that John's gratitude for that silence would lead to them both being loud.

Before John, Sherlock hadn't known it's not always obvious when desire will come, and that sometimes it takes almost nothing at all.

The stroke of a hand at the back of a neck.

A purposeful bump of hips in a slow-moving lift.

Or a linger gaze that says everything without words. _I never knew. But now I do. Oh god I know._

…

**18 December 2011**

"Put it on. Please."

"No, Sherlock, I hate it."

"You used to love it. Before."

John scowled at the beige jumper Sherlock held resolutely toward him.

"Exactly. Before _you."_

"Explain."

"I loved that jumper before you started looking at me like I was lunch and you were famished. That thing's not remotely sexy. It doesn't even fit. I look like a big, oatmeal biscuit in it."

"Exactly."

_"What?"_

"You look delicious."

"Explain."

Sherlock sat on the bed with a huff. "You won't like the answer."

John reared back. "Oh please don't tell me it makes you think of your gran. Or mum. Or Mycroft. Or Mrs. Hudson. Or—" John couldn't think of other people he didn't want Sherlock to think about.

Sherlock gathered the shapeless jumper to his bare chest, dipped his chin until his nose was buried in it. "It makes you look cold. And so I want to warm you." He breathed deep. "It makes you look small. And so I want to hold you." He gazed up through lashes. "It makes you look respectable. And so I want to…corrupt you."

Sherlock's right. John looks good dressed in nothing but his beige jumper.

John's right. John looks even better out of it.

_Livia Carica. That's all, just…it's always Livia._

…

**19 December 2011**

Half the time Sherlock seems angry with it; the other half it's like he wants to be inside it.

John doesn't know if a violin's meant to sound by turns frantic, shrieky, and mournful, but under Sherlock's restless hands his often sounds all three—at the same time.

When John moved into 221B he'd never seen a violin close up, hadn't a clue what a concerto was, much less a fingerboard, bout, or bridge.

That lack was partially rectified as Sherlock attacked the violin to sass his brother, meditatively plucked its strings during difficult cases, or underscored a point with the slash of a bow.

Yet John's violin instruction didn't really start until Sherlock began wooing him with it.

Sitting bed-side when the good doctor was sick, he played soft songs that sounded of lullabies. When John was busy with the blog, Sherlock perched cross-legged on the sofa, inventing nonsense soundtracks that swooped and soared.

And then once, just once, late one night, Sherlock stretched out on the bed and he wrapped bare legs round John's hips, and he played sweetly as John rocked against him, into him, and that night his song was not frantic, it was not fierce, it was not mournful.

And the only thing Sherlock wanted to be inside of afterward was John.

_Becky said sex and violin and I said what a marvelous idea._

…

**20 December 2011**

It's a bad habit and he knows it's a bad habit but Sherlock Holmes _loves_ bad things as long as he gets to dissect them, deduce them, or _be_ them.

"This new thing, this's just you showing off, isn't it?" Slumped on the sofa, John watched the yawning detective scuff into the kitchen.

"Who do you hope's going to _see_ you in that swaddling of sheet, Sherlock? _No one_ comes to this flat but Greg, Mrs. Hudson, your brother and the greengrocer, and so help me if you have a thing for Mr. Merrick you best tell me now."

Sherlock padded over to their desk and put his tea mug on top of John's laptop.

"Mr. Consulting Detective, get that off there. And eat the toast I made you. And for god's sake put on some clothes before you damn well flash the neighbors."

Sherlock yawned again, scuffed over to the sitting room window and dropped his sheet to the floor. He may then have used his penis to wave at anyone looking his way. Mr. Consulting Detective then sat down—bare naked—at John's computer and started to fire off a few dozen emails.

Here's something you need to know about John Watson: He's got a bad habit. It's called _baiting his sweetheart_ and it's a fault in his character the grinning Mr. Watson has no intention of rectifying any time soon.

Oh _hell_ no.

_SisterRaven said "Benny in a sheet" and I said…"Hmmmm."_

…

**21 December 2011**

"I shall call our slimy little babies Squidlock and Johnspawn."

Sherlock waved a noodly tentacle—um, arm, in the air. "Do as you will you strange man."

John snugged the bed covers up to their chins and giggled. "No one _made_ you share your sexy little squid-octopus dream with me, did they?"

Sherlock's beak—um, mouth, compressed into a moue of distaste. "It wasn't _about_ the sex, John."

Beneath the blanket John slid five wiggly tentacles—er, fingers, along Sherlock's belly. "Oh really? So the fact that we mated through nineteen minutes of your twenty minute dream has nothing to do with sexy, suckery sex then?"

Sherlock slapped at the willful limb creeping across his stomach, turned his back on his lover. "I'm ignoring you, you base creature."

John bumped his muscular septum—head, his _head,_ against the back of Sherlock's, reached around and fingered the man's, er, ink sac. "Certain parts of you are paying _very_ close attention to me, love."

Sherlock grunted when John's penis—um, yeah, his penis—pressed against Sherlock's, yes, his _rectum, _okay?

"I…it…was…" Sherlock finished this profound thought with a pretty arch of his back.

The two sleepy men proceeded to mate for the next twenty minutes. At _least. _Fortunately neither ended up pregnant with little squid-octopus babies afterward.

Not _this_ time.

_There once was a very amazing dream that needed a fic written about it. This appears to be one such (tiny) fic. Random, your mind continues to utterly stun me._

…

**22 December 2011**

"A pillow, my love? Or the gun?"

Sherlock wheezed, sneezed, furrowed his brow in thought.

"Shooting you would be quicker," John added, "but I'd really rather smother you in your sleep."

Sherlock blew his nose, remained silent, awaiting more data.

"Oh, I know. Forget the pillow. I'll use my blue-grey jumper instead. That one's your favorite."

Sherlock's eyes lit up. He withdrew the thermometer from his mouth. "Will you wear it so it smells of you? Before you kill me with it?"

John stroked sweaty hair from Sherlock's forehead. "Of course. I'll even have a good wank in it first."

Sherlock's grin was the same one he wears upon eyeing something dead. "That would be nice." With a shuddery little sigh he said, "How will I kill you?"

"Well…" John slid into the bed next to his fluish sweetheart. "I'm not sure if this is even technically _possible, _but do you think you could smother me with…you know?"

Sherlock meditatively grabbed a handful of his own arse. "I'll try. God knows there's enough there."

Content now that each understood how best to end the suffering of the other—should it ever come to that—John and his ill sweetheart drifted into a pleasant doze.

And if you think this conversation was just a bit of banter between mates you really, _really_ don't know the Baker Street boys, do you?

_Random Nexus has the most amazing dreams. In a recent one I offered to smother her with one of Ben's shirts, should she ever require an end to her cold/flu suffering. It says so much that when she relayed this I said, "Fic idea!" and she replied, "Hell yes!" Did I say I adore Random Nexus?_

…

**23 December 2011**

"I'm sorry John."

Sitting on a bench beside his lover, John Watson watched ducks paddle round Regent's canal.

"I didn't see her there. Or the lead pipe she carried."

On the bench between them the doctor weaved his fingers with those of his lover.

"I won't ask you to stop doing this, John."

Stretching his leg out in front of him, John wiggled his foot a little. He turned Sherlock's hand palm up.

"But I'll never…it'll always hurt…when you get hurt."

There's apparently a 'good' way to get hit in the thigh with a lead pipe. Twisting wildly as the murderer swung had enabled John to fortuitously find that sweet spot. He was healing fast.

"I'll listen next time you say you hear something."

One duck had amorous things to say to another duck. John smiled at them, stroked Sherlock's palm with his middle finger.

"I mean it this…time."

The good doctor watched the feathered mating dance, rubbed his thumb softly along the inside of Sherlock's wrist.

"And…next time we'll wait for backup."

John's tongue snaked slow between his lips, over and over.

"I…mean…it."

Sherlock stopped talking, closed his eyes. About then John did, too.

Sometimes, just sometimes, forgiveness is conveyed without words.

And sometimes, just sometimes, the sexiest thing in the world is silence.

…

**24 December 2011**

"If I have to wear these I'll stab myself in the neck with a spoon until dead. If you love me Sherlock don't make me do this."

Sherlock sat on their bed, leaned back on one manicured hand. He munched meditatively on an extra pair of candy nipple tassels, looked at _John's_ nipples critically. His sweetheart was right: The pastel confections pasted there didn't suit Caucasian skin tones _at all._

"The sequin hearts, perhaps?"

John gazed in the mirror, visualizing the flaming red against his wan English skin. "I'd rather scoop out my own eyes and eat them."

Sherlock began crunching a candy cock ring, careful not to muss his lipstick. Technically the case didn't require they _both_ dress provocatively and do a striptease, but…

"How about the black rhinestone sunbursts?"

John knew Sherlock just wanted to see him naked in public, so the good doctor wasn't going to make this easy. "I'll get the Browning and shoot something. And it won't be the wall."

Sherlock knew John knew Sherlock just wanted to see John naked in public. Sherlock sighed dramatically, murmured, "What a shame. This could've been such an interesting case." And then Sherlock 'absentmindedly' picked up and began sucking vanilla lube off a pretty blue-glass dildo.

They were nearly an hour late for their gig, but between the two of them they cleared four hundred pounds, easy. Got the embezzler, too.

_Shouldbeoverthis had classy thoughts about red nipple tassels, but instead I veered._

…

**25 December 2011**

They both agreed: 'screw Christmas.'

Well, not quite in those words. John said, "Let's skip gifts. Neither of us need anything, and we're broke anyway." Sherlock shrugged, said, "All right," and that was that.

Yes, well here's the thing: They're both liars.

The boys of Baker Street woke slowly on Christmas day. Made love even slower. Then everything jammed into _loud_ fast-forward when Sherlock yelled, "I GOT YOU SOMETHING," bounding out of bed still leaking from his, uh, leaky places. Seconds later he was back beneath warm covers, shoving a box in John's hand.

The good doctor attended to his, er, drippy bits, then with a grin groped for the box he'd slid under the bed at 3:00 am.

Eight seconds of noisy paper ripping later there was dead silence.

John frowned at the complete set of Doctor Who DVDs resting heavy in his hands. Sherlock blinked at the ten large slides in his, each an exquisitely-detailed bee close-up.

"I—"

"You see—"

Here's the thing, the DVD player in John's laptop broke ages ago. To help afford his gift for Sherlock the good doctor hocked the pricey player Mycroft bought them this summer. John could not watch these DVDs.

Here's the other thing: To keep his promise to John that he wouldn't spend actual money on a gift, Sherlock had hocked his light table. The only means by which he had to study these bee slides.

Finally, one last thing. Ordinarily neither man is _up for it_ so quickly after having gotten _down with it._

Interestingly, that was not a problem today.

_Aurora Boreali gave me the gift of the Magi._

…

**26 December 2011**

Lestrade loves this part of the job, when he's not busy hating it. But mostly he hates this part of the job because it turns everyone into a jibbering wreck, but for entirely different reasons.

Donovan just wants to have a reason to be angry—this gives her one. Anderson wants a reason to whine—he's got it. And Lestrade just wants to get through the day without a crime-scene erection but we don't all get what we want, do we?

They don't do it every time. They don't even do it most times. But so help him, if Greg calls John and Sherlock just before or—dear god help him—during sex, what passes for proper crime-scene behavior for those two would make a stripper blush.

It's John who starts it most times. He'll watch Sherlock do his Sherlock thing and John'll skip past lip-licking and go right to slow lip biting, and even as Sherlock's rattling off conclusions like a Gatling gun he'll return John's fire—as it were—with a chin down gaze and a slow thrust of the tongue.

After that they barely stop looking at each other—how Sherlock keeps up the rapid-fire deductions Lestrade doesn't know, but the man does—and it's not candlelight-quality demure gazes they share, it's outright eye fucking and this is where Lestrade's erections usually come in and what Greg's going to start doing, he's pretty sure, is contacting Mycroft to find out if it's safe to, you know, even call the boys. Because Mycroft's little bugs? The worst-kept secret since badly-kept secrets.

And no, this has nothing at all to do with Greg wanting an excuse to call Mycroft okay?

_Okay?_

_The unbelievably accomplished Jo Leigh wanted a bit of eye sex and that seemed a perfect idea; thank you dear Jo._

…

**27 December 2011**

"Get your leg over you lanky git."

Sherlock smacked John's hand away. "I can't," the git growled, "You broke me."

"I won't give that remark the dignity of a reply. How _you_ falling and twisting yourself into _this_ is my fault is beyon—"

_"You_ made me _come."_

"Keep complaining and I'll never make you _come_ again. Now. Get. Your. Leg. Over."

At last Sherlock unwound his right leg from his left, only just barely slicing open a limb with the blades of his skates. In increments John got the rangy fool on his feet but was tempted to shove him right on over when he began grumbling again.

"Look, you gangly halfwit, I didn't _make_ you come. I said _I_ was going, I said _I_ used to do this as a child, and _you_ said 'Wait for me.' What part of that is _me_ making _you_ come along?"

Sherlock was about to give that remark the dignity of a tart reply but taking the one deep breath required threw his six tippy feet off balance again. Down he went, this time taking the good doctor too with the swipe of one long-fingered paw.

And right about then the bickering was damn well called on account of forfeit when Sherlock decided to take advantage of their prone position and shoved a hot tongue between John's chilly lips.

By the time the boys got _up_ five other couples had fallen _down_—distracted by the horizontal spectacle on that bright ice.

It was good though, it was _all_ good. At least three of those pairs would be inspired to, you know, get a leg over. Later.

_A photo prompt from Aurora Boreali inspired this silly little advent (yes, I know advent is over but, well, the fics won't be until month's end)._

…

**28 December 2011**

"Like him do you?"

Sherlock added a fourth sugar cube to his coffee.

John glanced out the café's window to the advertisement across the street. "You can look at pretty men, you know."

Sherlock added a fifth sugar cube to his coffee, and continued to pretend he was deaf.

"Because I don't mind."

Sherlock was about to add a sixth sugar cube to his coffee when John put a hand on his sweetheart's wrist.

"Why does this make you uncomfortable?"

Sherlock stirred his coffee and realized he should have instead pretended he was blind. _Damn._

John took hold of Sherlock's chin, turned his sweetheart's head so that their gazes met. "You have eyes, my beautiful love, and they see more than the rest of us will ever know. Too often what they see is dark, and grim, and sad."

Gently John turned Sherlock's head, so that they both looked at the man in the ad across the street. "Look at him. It'll always be okay. Let those wise and knowing eyes find brightness and beauty where they can. Will you do that for me?"

It took a moment, but eventually Sherlock nodded his assent.

It took a moment more before John realized Sherlock had indeed settled his gaze on something bright, something beautiful. The café window…and John's reflection in it.

_My delightful husband came up with this prompt; he too is something bright, something beautiful._

…

**29 December 2011**

John Watson is a wildly promiscuous man and the tendency is just getting worse as he gets older.

Sherlock's all right with his sweetheart's proclivities, however. As a matter of fact he shares John's propensity—when he can be bothered. But mostly Sherlock just enjoys watching John select his target and go in for the kill.

Right now the little tart tends to give a lusty eye to chocolate-dipped and frosted, though last month his ardor were aroused by cream-filled and jam-sandwiched.

John doesn't have quite Sherlock's sweet tooth no, but he more than makes up for it in his devotion to his preferred inamorato—biscuits in all their glory.

As a matter of fact, after John had a root canal soon after he and Sherlock were married, the resulting lack of low-grade chronic pain so inflamed the doctor's passions for his favored sweets that Sherlock had absolutely no problem being forgiven for multiple experiment-related sins…so long as there was something chocolate-dipped, frosted, cream-filled or jam-sandwiched nearby when he apologized.

For example, when the good detective did that thing with the road flares? You know, the time that he shattered the kitchen window and set the fridge on fire (how do you set stainless steel _on fire?)_, Sherlock's extremely effective apology was six nude feet of consulting detective covered the whole vast length with biscuits.

Twice.

…

**30 December 2011**

Sherlock hung his head off the side of the bed. "I'm too tired, it's your turn."

John scowled at the weak morning sun. "After the week you put me through I'm lucky if I'll even get it up. Besides, you're the super genius, _you_ come up with—"

Sherlock snorted. "You've been bedded from Khandar to Camden, _you_ should be able to think of something we haven't—"

"I have _not_ been bedded from—" John paused dramatically, waiting for Sherlock to interrupt. You can't properly refute the truth unless someone disputes you. Sherlock did not dispute.

"Yes, fine, okay. I was sweetheart to the regiment, you happy now?" John wriggled beside Sherlock, hung his head off the side of the bed.

"I will be if you can think of something."

Both men stared at the burn on the wall behind them, remnant of Sherlock's battery acid, faux fur, and talcum debacle.

"Well. We've done it in public. The shower. Kitchen. Alley. Hall. Morgue. Basement. Underground." As he spoke John's hand found its slow way south.

"Mrs. Hudson's. Mr. Merrick's. Regent's Park. The pond at Hampstead Heath. St. Paul's. Euro Disney—"

"Twice."

"—twice. Tower of London, Westminster Abbey, London Eye." As he spoke Sherlock's hands found their slow way south.

"On the sofa. Behind the sofa. In the hall—"

"You said that."

"—I didn't finish. In the hall at the Met, the one without CCTV cameras."

"Oh," Sherlock sighed. His hands stilling briefly, then becoming more active. "I remember that."

"Nearly…got caught…anyway." John panted prettily.

Sherlock's knee knocked John's. Both men paused. Looked at one another. John looked at the wall. "Bet you can't."

"I know I can't."

"Try."

Sherlock glanced at the acid burn. "I couldn't possi—"

John groaned and his hand begin moving fast.

Sherlock bit his lip and wasn't far behind.

P.S. Neither did. But they tried. Twice.

_Kirakira Nanoda wondered what would happen if John and Sherlock ran out of ideas for sex. I know that'd never happen with her John and Sherlock, but it appears to have done with mine._

…

**31 December 2011**

* I will get fit this year. And I'll _stay _fit.

Slumped on the sofa, laptop on his belly, John rolled his eyes at his computer. He'd made this resolution every December thirty-first for the last five years and it meant three things: God damn push-ups. God damn jogging. And fucking celery.

I will… ∞ ∞ ∑ ∆ ◊ ∞ ∞

At their desk pretending he was following his lover's directive to 'focus that brilliant mind on something new—make a few resolutions with me this year,' instead Sherlock was doodling mathematical symbols or watching John.

* I'll teach Sherlock how to manage money.

John scowled at his laptop. Yeah, well, that was presuming they damn well _made_ any money this year.

I will ~ ~ ~

Sherlock kept drawing the less than and greater than signs until they were…mating.

* This time I'll say yes to the presentation Mike Stamford wants me to give at the Seville conference.

John frowned and remembered last year. God but he didn't want to go to that damn conference again. He hated leaving Sherlock.

I will ∆ ≈ ∆ ≈ ∆

Sherlock went back to drawing the…mating signs.

* I'll take that sodding typing course this year at the further education college.

John pulled a face at his laptop. Just what he wanted at the end of a long day running round London, a night course with a bunch of stroppy, spotty kids.

_I will…find resolutions boring._ Sherlock glanced up. John's face most definitely was not boring. Sherlock watched his lover focus that brilliant mind of his.

* I'll look into that position Mycroft was talking about.

John sneered. He liked Mycroft just fine but the idea of working for the man made him want to bite something.

_I will…_ Sherlock suddenly had a resolution. _…give John a reason to smile. Now._

* I'll get a…

Unhurried movement caught John's eye about the time Sherlock's shirt slinked off his shoulders.

The tall man stood and John remembered all his sweetheart had been wearing was that white button-down shirt. "Put some clothes on you beautiful exhibitionist," had been John's words an hour ago. Sherlock had complied. More or less.

Now most definitely…less.

Sherlock plucked up John's laptop, put it on the coffee table. He then went to his knees between John's knees. He bowed his head.

"Shhherlock…"

Many, _many_ times they both resolve to be quieter.

_"Sh—Sherlock…"_

In deference to Mrs. Hudson, of course.

_"SHERLOCK!"_

They didn't manage to keep _that_ resolution _this _time either.

_Because people (including me) are traveling and busy this month, December will be tiny updates. Today's story is last year's Advent all gathered together and in one place (and yes, I know Advent is only 24 days!) I'm doing another Advent calendar on Tumblr (atlinmerrick dot tumblr dot com), so if you've got photo prompts__ (they don't have to be John or Sherlock) do please send. Thank you!_


End file.
